SERMON, March 30, 2008

2 Easter John 20:19-31

Our story begins the morning with the church—we might take the liberty of calling this gathered group of Jesus’ friends—the church—it begins with the church gathered in a state of disorientation, depression and defensiveness. (Some might describe the church today in similar terms—there is some evidence for this) The disciples are locked in a room and not only are they filled with fear about the possibility that they too might meet the same fate as Jesus—but we can only imagine that they are filled with guilt and remorse. Not only is Jesus dead—whatever hopes they’d pinned on him dead with him—but they, each of them, at least the so-called inner circle of his most intimate friends—had all abandoned him. When push came to shove, they’d all run away. Those in the room would have included some who had not run—the women, for example, who had stood watching from a distance as he died—but the combination of fear and remorse must have filled the room.

Years ago I spent some time in South Africa, just before the election when Nelson Mandela was elected President. It was a time of great fear—everyone was on edge because hardly anyone could believe that there wouldn’t be armed rebellion. Blacks and whites alike were almost exhausted from their anxiety. I can still feel that fear in my body—the fear that filled every space. You would walk into a room and it didn’t matter the color of the people there—fear was in the room. You could feel it. The air was thick with it.

It’s into this kind of situation that the resurrected Jesus appears—wounds still visible—hands, feet, side. I try to imagine their shock. And the feelings that ran through them—awe, incredulity, joy, and some fear I would think. Still some fear. After all, many of them were the ones who had abandoned him. Peter had denied him. The rest had disappeared—even the women had stood at a distance. It must have been a bit like meeting up with someone you loved who died before you could say you were sorry—someone you’d deeply hurt, and you’d never been able to make amends before they died. I knew a woman once whose grown son had died in an accident after they’d had a huge argument. Her last words to him had been words of judgment and anger. She had such grief, not only about his death, but about the way they’d parted, about her actions.

“Peace be with you,” says Jesus. You’ll remember perhaps that he’d promised them the gift of his peace. His shalom. That peace that passes understanding—where oneness, unity is the key. Not some false superficial, let bygones be bygones, kind of peace—or that kind of peace that exists just because you don’t talk about certain things, you pretend all is well when really everyone knows it isn’t. No, Jesus’ peace is the peace of true community—with one another and with God—with all of creation in fact.

“Peace be with you,” says Jesus. Imagine the relief that filled the room. Where they’d expected rejection, judgment, they’d received peace. Jesus had not abandoned them as they had abandoned him. The wounds were there—clear evidence of the horrors of his death, proof positive perhaps to them of their own choices to desert him. The grace with which he had judged the world was the grace they received that day in the closed-off shut-up space. They were forgiven. He’d talked, and taught, and lived forgiveness. He’d lived the life of God’s radical inclusive love—sitting down to eat with the lost and rejected—calling the powerful and the judgmental to remember their own need for forgiveness. He’d lived the forgiving grace of God among them—but now, in the place they’d least expected it, they knew they were forgiven and loved—as they never had before. Perhaps now they understood how much they needed forgiveness. Forgiveness risen from the grave. Joy fills the room, and begins to waft out the windows I suspect.

It doesn’t end there. In John’s gospel Pentecost and Easter are of a piece. John tells us that Jesus breathed on his disciples—breathed the living Spirit into them. This is such a shockingly intimate act—this breathing on the community gathered. This group of forgiven people. Echoing the breath of God that moved over the deep and brought all things into being, the breath of God breathed into the humans created out of the mud. The breath of God breathed into the dry bones of Ezekiel’s great vision—bringing them to new life. Jesus breathes on his friends and fills them with the Holy Spirit—gives them the gift of new life. They are transformed through forgiveness and Spirit. Their lives will never be the same as the Spirit continues its work within and among them.

And, then the commissioning: “I send you out as I have been sent,” he says. Continue my work—God’s work, as you have experienced it in me. The work of forgiveness—the work of judgment by mercy. Binding and loosing of sin. One of the most puzzling of statements—mulled over and disputed throughout church history—used and abused. It is related perhaps to the admonition in Leviticus to forgive and to bring out into the open the truth of hurts between neighbors. But in the context of John’s gospel sin is not moral laxity or bad behavior—sin is blindness to the revelation of God in Jesus. In John’s gospel Jesus brings people to judgment—to a moment of choice—by his revealing work and life in the world. Jesus’ revelation of God’s love for all, God’s forgiveness offered before there is repentance, God’s lifting up of the oppressed, and healing of the sick; it is rejection of Jesus as revelation of God that is sin.

He calls his friends out into the world—in the power of the Spirit—to live as he has lived—to be their own little revelations of God at work in the world. That is the commissioning. They are to do as he did—to bring their world to its own moments of decision and choice—by presenting it with God at work in their midst.

This is heavy stuff. It requires a living ever more deeply into the truth of our own forgiveness. The church is in fact a community of the forgiven. A community of people inspired (breathed into) by the Spirit—brought to new life. Called to live more and more deeply as God’s beloved in the world.

We are never fully there. We are always in need of forgiveness. Always able to learn more and more about what it might mean to live as representatives of God’s love in the world. God’s forgiveness. Imagine you and I offering others a chance to make a choice to give themselves over to that love—to be made new by forgiveness. Imagine you and I letting go of our own habits and ways that distance, that judge, that reject, that separate—the patterns of our lives that disrupt the possibility of peace—of shalom. Imagine you and I inviting others into God’s peace.

Kierkegard I think it was who said that we suffer from shut-upness. And I would have to agree. We have all in one way or another shut ourselves up and off—in our despair, grief, hopelessness, in times of great frustration or fear we have closed the doors, shut the windows, drawn the drapes and hunkered down. And in a sense too, if you are like me, you often wander the streets, carry on your lives in shut-upness. Living as though there were no resurrection. I find myself trapped in a seemingly endless capacity to judge others, to distance myself from them, to draw back from those who are different. I forget that the forgiveness that arose from the grave is forgiveness for all. The love that came to Mary, Thomas and the others with wounds is love of all. No one excluded. I forget my calling to be a follower of Christ offering others a glimpse—albeit oh so imperfect—of the great love that is God’s. I have so much to unlearn in order to grow up into Christ—into maturity of faith.(1)

Just the other day I was in a little Mexican restaurant and a woman I recognized was in front of me placing her order. She is a homeless woman, and she often listens to voices in her head, and sometimes behaves quite differently. I know her and have talked with her. On this occasion after she ordered her food and paid, she took the tray with the chips and salsa on it, and held it high above her head on the tips of her fingers and sashayed toward her table, singing. The woman taking orders smiled at me and I at her as we enjoyed her childlike exuberance. But here’s where I strayed. I didn’t say hello, and I didn’t ask if I could join her for lunch. I sat by myself in the other room. My habits of a lifetime took over and I failed to live into the resurrection. Who knows how the Spirit might have blessed me or her, had I asked to be seated with her. Who knows what that little offering of presence might have meant to either of us? I will never know. I stand everyday in need of forgiveness, of transformation, of being set free to live more deeply as a Christian.

Each of us has our own choices to make everyday. Whether to draw near to others—to enter their personal space as Christ did when he breathed on his friends or to distance ourselves—whether physically, or by judging, or rejecting, or dismissing or simply not taking note of. Whether to remain in our shut-upness or to open ourselves to the movement of the Spirit. We face these moments of resurrection possibility in our families, at home, at work, in the market, at church, wherever we are.

The wounds of the risen Christ remind us—not only of God’s presence with us in our own woundedness—but of his call to us to go out to others who are wounded—to those who do not know about the love of Christ or the forgiveness of God. We are called to draw near to those who are stuck in their own shut-upness.

We have been forgiven and given the gift of the Spirit, and we have been commissioned. We are a new people. The resurrection is all about new life—it’s about a whole new world right here and now beckoning us to draw near and to know God’s peace. The peace of our oneness with each other, with God and with all creation. May that vision of peace be always before us nudging us --calling us to step out into newness.

Amen. May it be so.

------- 1 I’m grateful for this notion of our call to unlearning so eloquently described in L. Gregory Jones’ Embodying Forgiveness: A Theological Analysis (Eeerdmans: Grand Rapids, MI), 1995.